


Sear

by PinkHydrangea



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Childhood Trauma, me: apparently loves to make tharja suffer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkHydrangea/pseuds/PinkHydrangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tharja has done something wrong. </p>
<p>Surely, definitely, she’s done something wrong and that is why her mother has brought her to Validar. She begins to scream apologies at the top of her lungs while she pulls at her skin. She is so sorry, she is so sorry, she’ll be good, she’ll have any other curse put on her but this one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sear

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I was thinking about Tharja and Robin the other day and this came to mind?? Like, the reason Tharja felt such a connection to Robin was because both of them were essentially born and designed to be potential vessels for Grima, so when Robin's mother left with them, Tharja was tested as a vessel and it didn't go well. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ After, it stemmed into this whole series of headcanons about Plegian nobility and them trying to groom their children as vessels and so here we are.  
> (PS contrary to my tag, I do not love to make Tharja suffer ;w;)

The desert is cold that night. Tharja’s father wakes her and takes her from her warm bed and takes time to wrap a shawl around her as tight as he can. Her mother is more impatient, her foot tapping against the floor, the beads on her gown rustling and jumping with each movement. Tharja is still bleary with sleep, but she can see the tightness on her father’s brow clearly and notice the sparkle in her mother’s slate-colored eyes.

“Where are we going?” she asks her father quietly as he picks her up and holds her close. “It's dark outside, so we should be asleep.”

Her father does not respond immediately and instead stares blankly at his wife's back, but he gives her an answer soon enough. “We’re going to see your mother’s friend. You can sleep on the way.”

It's an odd time to be going to someone's house, but Tharja ignores this and wraps her skinny arms around her father’s neck and shuts her eyes. Her father’s golden skin is warm and smells like sun-baked sand, and his hair is the color of blood. He is nice to fall asleep against.

Through her half-sleep, she feels a rumble in her father’s chest as he speaks in a low and irritated tone to her mother, who is walking far ahead. They rarely speak warmly to one another, so this is no surprise. Even though she is a child, she knows the marriage is loveless and the two, in fact, do not even _like_ each other. Marriages among Plegian nobility are often political and dry, resulting in cold and loveless children.

The trek through the sand is long and her fingers are cold, so the manor they arrive at is a welcome sight. A girl is waiting for them there, a lantern in her hand. She has skin that is a dull brown and silver-ish hair that glints pink when it catches the light. She is expressionless, tall, and can't be more than fifteen. She bows to Tharja’s mother and takes her cloak, shaking out the sand, and then does the same for her and her father. When she takes Tharja’s shawl, she glowers down at the little girl and shows her first expression in a sneer of disdain.

“Skinny, isn't she?”

“The body is strong,” assures her mother. “My work has made sure of that.”

Tharja’s father grabs her hand and they follow her mother and the girl down the hallway. Tharja is still sleepy and yawns, rubbing at her eyes and squinting blearily down the hallways that twist and turn. She has no idea what is to come.

“Are we going back to sleep soon?” she asks her father.

“Perhaps,” he says passively. “Be good for now.”

The little girl agrees and keeps her eyes focused on her mother ahead. Her mother is beautiful, with skin blacker than the night and hair that is darker still. Her gown is loose and has a built-in shawl to defend against the harsh desert climate, covered with bells and beads befitting of Plegian nobility. Her arms are laced with tattoos and thick bracelets- Tharja has seen her mother keep blood in the bracelets and she decorates them with dried crow’s feet and lizard tails so she always has them on hand for her curses.

“In this room,” instructs the older girl. She holds the door open for them and the family steps in.

The room is wide, covered with rugs that have patterns that Tharja knows are ceremonial. The walls are made of a warm red stone and have elaborately made lights hung on them. In the center of the room is a statue of a dragon, the stone carved with such detail that even the slightest shift in the neck’s movement is noticeable. The statue unsettles her and she holds her father’s hand a bit tighter.

Grima has always made her uncomfortable.

A man is standing near the statue, and he equally unsettling with his tall stature, long neck,

and dark eyes that are sunken in his dark face. He’s dressed in the ceremonial robes of a Grimleal priest, all purple and black with gold runes and bangles all around. When he walks towards them, he clinks and clangs and Tharja hides a bit behind her father.

He sinks down to her level, a hollow smile revealing blinding teeth, and extends long, bony fingers towards her. “You are Tharja, yes?”

She narrows her eyes at him in response. “You’re creepy.”

Her mother whisks her hand across the top of her head in warning, but the man only laughs, thanks her, and tilts his fingers towards himself in beckoning. “You’re about the same age as my daughter,” he says, and then his eyes narrow and his smile widens. “If she were still with me.”

“I hope this will be an adequate replacement,” her mother says.

Tharja’s stomach falls.

The man takes Tharja’s hand, even though she pulls it away from his creepy fingers and makes a displeased sound. He is rude and persistent. “I suppose we'll see. If she is not? Well… That, let’s hope not.” His eyes are pitch black and they frighten her. “Tharja, I am your mother’s friend. I am Validar, and this girl here is my oldest daughter and attendant, Aversa. You will be helping us tonight, if you don’t mind.”

She sniffs and comes out from behind her father when he presses a warm hand to her back. “How am I going to help? What am I going to help with?”

Validar stands and begins to guide her towards the statue. He speaks in a calm, almost fatherly tone that puts her at ease against her will. “Well, Tharja, you could be very important, just like my daughter was. You may be able to help Master Grima, and thus, be a hero for every single person in this country. Wouldn’t that be nice? To help everyone? To be their savior?”

It sounds boring, but Tharja does not say so and only looks back at her parents for some indication of what she should do. Her father looks away so she can see only his blood-hair, but her mother nods without expression and waves her bangled hand in a dull manner.

“Master Grima?” Tharja asks.

“Yes, yes.” Validar lets go of her hand when they reach the statue of the dragon and smooths a crease in the shoulder of her dress. “He’s been in quite some trouble for a very long time and needs us to help him. Don’t you want to help Master Grima, Tharja? He will reward you handsomely.”

Tharja is so young, only five, and the prospect of a reward is the most tempting thing in the world. “What kind of reward?”

The man gives his widest smile yet and stands up tall. A bony finger traces the line of his beard. “Why, godhood, of course. You could live and play forever, Tharja. Do you like to play?”

“I like to read more than play.”

“You could read so much! You could read every book in this world, Tharja.” There is a belt at his waist and he reaches into one of the pockets hanging off of it, pulling out a handful of powder that looks like the dried blood on her mother’s spell table. “What kind of books do you like to read?”

Aversa comes forward with a bowed head and a small flask and pours a thick, clear liquid into her father’s palm that has the dusty powder in it. She backs into the shadows once more, the hem of her gown whispering along the floor as she does so. She looks so hollow, and Tharja thinks she needs to go outside and play in the sand some more.

Validar keeps her eyes as he rubs his palms together and turns the powder into a mush that he begins to rub along the sides of her neck. “I like to read books about history,” he tells her. “History is fun, Tharja. Now, what kind of books do you like to read?”

He is saying her name far too much and the gunk on her throat is sticky and hot. She wants to squirm, but she knows if she does so, she will get far more from her mother than the simple warning hand from earlier. Her mother will undoubtedly keep her in her room all day and read from curse books and smear blood on her face and shove dried rabbit eyes into her mouth until she throws up, until her mother gets the results she wants and feels the punishment has been enough.

Tharja stays still.

“I like to read books about magic,” Tharja responds. “What are we doing? What’s this stuff?”

“It conducts the magic in your body,” Validar explains. “It will help Master Grima connect and speak with you.”

She swallows and stays still while he finishes smearing the hot gunk into her skin. It smells foul, very sour like spoiled milk, and she hopes she can take a long bath after this before she goes back to sleep.

Validar stands, Aversa comes forth with her bowed head and a basin of water; he cleans his hands in it and thanks her before sending her back with a wave of his hand. “Now, Tharja, let’s start. If you would kneel there- yes, that’s a good girl- and focus on the statue of Master Grima.”

The statue is made from pitch black and glistening stone- obsidian, Tharja thinks. Her mother has an obsidian statue of a skull in her room and the materials look similar. While she waits, while she listens to the bustles and the beginnings of chanting behind her, she keeps staring staring staring at the statue of the dragon. Its eyes are red in contrast to the rest of the body, the teeth are made from marble, there is not even a chip or dull spot anywhere on the image, and-

A burning sensation starts in the lowest part of her stomach, uncomfortably warm.

Tharja begins to scream.

Her entire body has caught on fire, surely it has, and her insides are melting and turning into bloody, messy goop. Her eyes burn more fiercely than anything else and she claws at them, scratching her face, desperate to gouge them out and disconnect from the pain, but then even her hair starts to burn and she pulls and tugs at that instead, bringing out strands as she screams and rips.

Everything is burning, everything is turning to lava, her mouth is full of hot desert sand and her eyes are melting away. A fire starts around her, encircling her, but she does not know if it’s an illusion or reality. She just knows it’s so **_hot_**. It’s so hot, so hot, so hot, and she wants to bury herself in that stuff called snow from the picture books, wants to go back outside to where the wind was strong and cold, she just wants to _die_ to stop this excruciating pain.

Tharja has done something wrong. Surely, definitely, she’s done something wrong and that is why her mother has brought her to Validar. This is another experiment, another curse test, she has been bad and is being punished. She begins to scream apologies at the top of her lungs while she pulls at her skin. She is so sorry, she is so sorry, she’ll be good, she’ll have any other curse put on her but this one. The apologies are ripping her throat apart and they begin to turn into nothing but babble as the pain increases and her thoughts start to crack.

She hears her name come from her father and then the harsh sound of bracelets clanging- he has taken a step towards her, but her mother has stopped him.

The statue of the dragon in front of her begins to move, as though awoken by her screaming. It writhes and stretches great wings, its neck weaving down towards her until it’s so close that it, too, begins to melt in the heat. It opens up its great mouth and a voice pounds in Tharja’s head so painfully that she curls up and begins to bash her head against the ground.

**“WHAT IS THIS? WHAT IS THIS _MEAGER_ OFFERING, VALIDAR?”**

It screams in unison with her, displeased, howling its fury and twisting in the same agony. Its ruby eyes burn, loom over her, melt and drip onto her, and Tharja thinks she is in that hell that her mother so frequently talks about. She has never understood what a place Hell is before, but now she knows, and she will never forget.

The chanting in the back of her mind stops, a chill falls on her body, and Tharja completely slumps to the floor and blacks out.

Minutes later, what feels much too short, a hand is on her shoulder and yanking her up; Tharja’s body is tingling so unpleasantly, like the aftereffects of those times where her mother rubs hot coals on her arms to prepare for a spell. She is still whispering “sorry” and does not stop for a very long time. The world is spinning, but she first checks the ground for the scorch marks that the fire has left behind, but they are not there. Frantic, her eyes flick up to Grima, only to find that its ruby eyes are dull once more and the statue has not moved an inch.

“A pity,” says Validar as he scoops her into his arms. She would like to scream and hit him, but she is dead-tired and her throat is completely ruined- her pain had been so real and her screaming had been no illusion. “Master Grima would not accept her. Don’t bring her back to me.”

With barely any care, he dumps the five-year-old into the arms of her father who holds her close. He is shaking, Tharja thinks, but maybe that is just she herself trembling. A strand of saliva drips from her mouth and gets on the sleeve of his shirt, but he does not pay it any mind at all.

“What do you mean she isn’t compatible?” spits her mother. She takes a step, full of hostility, towards Validar. “Your wife and I did _everything_ together to prepare. We drank the same potions, cast the same spells on ourselves, performed the same rituals- Tharja and Robin should be equally the same! Grima has to accept my child!”

Validar blinks and tilts his head- he resembles a vulture. “So that may be, you nor I have any sway over the Fell Dragon. He chooses whom he pleases, and he simply did not have any chemistry with little Tharja.” He sighs and massages his temples with the tips of his fingers. “Don’t speak to me in such a manner again, Rozan, or I will lose my patience with you at long last.”

Tharja squirms in her father’s arms, a tingling still in the tips of her fingertips, and twists enough to not vomit all over her father, but nobody notices the shaking, sick child or the bloody gunk that is now all over the ceremonial carpets. She realizes that there is not only blood in her mouth and stomach, there is blood all over her face- where had she bled from? Her eyes? Her nose? Or just her mouth? In any case, it is everywhere and it makes her even more sick.

Her mother clenches her fists and falls to her knees, pressing her forehead to the stone floor in a sorry display. She begins to pray, straining the tips of her fingers towards the statue in the middle of the room, whispering words in a foreign, ancient language.

Nobody moves until she has finished praying and is back on her feet with a bowed head and a hand locked over her heart. Her inky skin looks clammy and there are beads of sweat rolling down the side of her face- it is obvious that she is terrified to have spoken to Validar in such a way, horrified to have offered her God a pathetic thing, and scared at being threatened. Her mother has never been brave. Tharja resists the urge to throw up again.

Validar sniffs and pushes his hand against Tharja’s forehead, ignores her weak scream, and flicks away the remnants of the gunk he spread on her. “She is not entirely without use, however. She is not a pile of ashes on the ground, unlike the last two potential vessels we offered. Master Grima seems to think she has worth.”

Her father pulls her tighter to him as though to protect her from the words. Her mother breaths a sigh of relief like the weight of the world has been taken off her shoulders. Aversa has shown up at their sides with their cloaks draped over her arm.

“Yes, yes, I can feel his will. This child, he believes she has a gift for dark magic. He felt it, yes, that’s why he has spared her- She will be powerful, she will destroy the children of Naga. Curse flows in her veins.”

Tharja’s mother puffs out her chest. “Well, the child did come from me.”

Nothing is making sense, the world is still spinning, and there is more vomit that is struggling its way up Tharja’s throat. Ashes, Grima, Naga, curses, the words all sound like blabber in her mother’s foreign language that inch into her mind at the pace of molasses. Had there been others before her, others who had to face that pain? Had they really been reduced to cinders, or was this vulture exaggerating?

Tharja didn’t know. She just wanted to go back home and go to sleep and pretend like she hadn’t just stared into the ruby-colored eyes of Hell, though she has an inkling that she will never be able to forget the face of Grima again.

“Begin training her in curses and dark magic as soon as possible.” He sounds as though he is the pharmacist who sometimes visits their house when Tharja is sick to prescribe treatments. “She will join the royal army when is older, along with Aversa. That must be why Master Grima spared her. She has use.”

Her mother bows takes her cloak from Aversa and sweeps it over her shoulders before giving a low bow. “Yes. She will start tomorrow.” The woman eyes her daughter with something akin to disgust. “I won’t be going easy on this thing anymore.”

 


End file.
